Waiting for Santa to Come
by ElectricBluDress
Summary: John and Sherlock celebrate a Baker Street Christmas and make sure to entertain all of their friends. Because everyone needs some 221B smut to make the season bright! Now with chapter 7!
1. Chapter 1

When John Watson came home from his shift on Christmas Eve he found the flat lit and tidy, but seemingly abandoned. He sighed, shrugged and went to get himself a bath.

Bathed and redressed, he found his lanky lover leaning against the corridor wall, silken dressing gown nearly falling off his naked frame.  
"I want to ask you something", Sherlock purred and led the way to the bedroom.

Their bed had been draped in satin, the same colour as blood.  
The room was dimly lit, but John could still see the mistletoe hanging from the ceiling in generous bunches.  
"If one twig of mistletoe grants me one kiss on the lips", Sherlock mumbled in John's ear, "What does 221 twigs grant me?"  
"Let's find out", John breathed.

Before he knew what happened, his shirt no longer had any buttons.  
That didn't matter. What mattered was cold satin against his back, a bottle of cinnamon lube and a very inquisitive berk.

When John was a child he often leapt out of bed at six on Christmas morning, not able to contain his excitement anymore.

Then there were the years when he couldn't be bothered to get his arse out of bed at all on Christmas morning.

This Christmas his arse spent Christmas morning hovering about 45 centimetres over the bed – being buggered.


	2. Chapter 2

"I really need a shower", John groaned when they had resumed breathing.  
"No you don't", Sherlock answered with a wicked smile, "We need to go see if Santa is here yet."

They padded out into the living room, naked and blushed.  
The tree was lit, as was the fire. In front of it was a thick and comfortable blanket.

Their Santa was sat on the sofa, dressed only in his hat and a red bow.  
Santa looked a lot like Mycroft, thoughtfully nibbling a thin dildo.  
"Is this a special sort of carrot for my reindeers?" he drawled when he saw them. He stuffed the dildo away and smiled. "No, really. I wanted to give thanks for my Christmas presents. Am I to thank one..." he measured them up and shifted to the edge of the seat, "...or both?"

Mycroft's presents had been delivered in blister pack. They were small, effective and baby blue.  
All evidence showed that he had tried some for breakfast.

Their Santa was hung like a bull.

Sherlock and John looked at each other, licking their lips.  
"Both!"

When John was a child he often lay awake impatiently waiting for Santa to come. This Christmas morning he also impatiently waited for Santa to come, but this time when he finally _did_ come – he came from behind.


	3. Chapter 3

From the age of three to the age of eighteen, the first thing that John Watson had swallowed on every Christmas morning was one of auntie Mable's mince pies.

This Christmas, when in his early forties, he would happily swallow anything given to him by the Holmes brothers.  
He would lick, lap and swallow but never bite.  
Or perhaps just a bit...

Nothing they served this morning would ever make it to a cooking show on the BBC. (Although possibly on HBO.)  
However, John thought, what they filled his mouth with was much less sugary and much higher in protein. Besides, they didn't produce any washing up - which was an added bonus.

Mummy Holmes had sent them a Christmas hamper from F&M. When John's diet needed variation they raided the luxurious basket.

They found good and entertaining uses for both the Bollinger and the Beluga.  
Cinnamon lube proved to be marvellous on bread sticks.  
The manufacturer would have paled if he knew what use they had of his brandy butter.

John never really liked sweets. He preferred salty, tangy or bitter.  
Parts of Sherlock tasted quite strongly of cinnamon bun.  
Parts of Mycroft actually tasted like bacon.  
Compared to mince pies this was much better.  
He hummed and smiled in contentment as he licked clean another pair of hairless balls.


	4. Chapter 4

With reluctance Mycroft left for Christmas dinner with Mummy. Before he pulled his pants up they gave him two well-placed love bites.  
One on each buttock.  
Something to remember them by.  
(As they would remember him every time they tried to sit.)

The boys had a much needed bath and some tea for sore throats before settling in on the hearth rug and opening their presents from each other.

They took one gift at a time, savouring the other's reaction.

When John started peeling off the paper from his box, Sherlock was already dressed in his gift. It was a black satin corset, trimmed with lace. John had always fancied himself a man who liked breasts, but now he really couldn't take his eyes off Sherlock's protruding bum.

The pale cheeks looked so pretty framed by deepest black.

John's gift was also black.  
It was something like 12 inches long and had an end that was nothing but bulbous.  
It had a remote control. He licked his lips. His eyes bulged, as did his boxers.

John risked a glance at Sherlock. The detective smiled as the cat who had just swallowed the budgie.

"I knew Santa was going to give you something large", Sherlock said and leaned in to whisper in John's ear, "But I wanted to give you something bigger..."


	5. Chapter 5

Most of John Watson's early Christmases had been spent at auntie Mable's. They had been jolly and cosy Christmases – and traditional. To auntie Mable there was no such thing as too much tradition. They did the same thing every year, at the exact same time as the year before.

Life in the military had been lax compare to the drill John had been through every year at auntie Mable's Christmas bash.

Most of Sherlock's Christmases had been different from the year before. Sometimes he had spent them alone with the cook and the butler.  
Sometimes in a dorm with his brother.  
Sometimes itching in formal wear at the manor during a banquet. [Delete: awkward moment under the mistletoe with the ambassador from Burundi.]  
Most of them had been boring.

What both set of Christmases had in common was the Queen's speech. It was observed with almost religious ardour by auntie Mable, mrs Holmes and the butler.

Those three would not approve of this year's arrangements at Baker Street. When her Majesty began her speech this was the scene:  
1. Sherlock was not bored, mainly because he had never before spent this part of the day dressed in a black lace bodice.  
2. Only one part of Captain Watson stood to attention. The rest of him was flat on his back – bottoming.


	6. Chapter 6

Later that evening a window was cracked open, letting the curtains move with the gentle breeze.  
Somehow John and Sherlock had made it back to the bed.  
Bathing in pale moonlight were two very sated and sore bodies.  
Spread out like two starfish on the blood red satin, they smiled lazily in post-coital bliss.

They were about to drift off to sleep when John's mobile binged and started to blink.  
It was a text from Lestrade:  
"Merry Christmas boys. Hope you're getting ready for Boxing Day."

The next morning they found themselves on their knees in front of the sofa. Legs spread, hands handcuffed behind their backs.

Greg paced up and down the length of the room. He was quite impressive in nothing but his usual coat and unusual biker boots.  
Sometimes he would quote embarrassing situations from the past year's crime scenes, and repay by giving them a whip with his belt.  
This was recreational scolding if ever there was one. In the end it really was a bit unclear if Lestrade wanted them to _behave_ or _mis_-behave.  
Either way, pre-cum already formed at his tip in beads.

Sherlock drooled around his red gagging ball.  
John giggled, more excited than bemused.  
"Enough of that", Greg said, whipping the doctor's already burning buttock.  
"It's time for business. Now: brace. And _bend_..."


	7. Chapter 7

Lestrade had hardly left when the next visitor arrived. John still had cum dripping down his leg when they heard the bell.

Within a minute Molly stood in the kitchen shedding her dress.  
"I've been to Christmas dinner at my granny", she said, "Now make me forget all about it!"  
Of course they both complied. Sherlock eagerly embraced a new, tight toy. John was happy that this would mean some rest for his aching bum.

They put her on the bed and relieved her off her wet knickers and see-through bra.  
She eagerly straddled John and slipped down his length. After just a moment she leaned forward and let Sherlock push in, almost without resistance.

She sighed, "I wore a butt-plug during dinner. Tradition. Only thing that keeps me from going bonkers".  
Both her lovers involuntarily snapped their hips at this mental image. She dropped her jaw and bawled.

This version of Molly was amazing. When in control she was a thing of absolute beauty.  
The boys did their best at wiping the resent Christmas memories from her brain.  
John was treated to a marvellous view of bouncing breasts.

Molly babbled and begged.  
She came like a banshee.

"Next time we'll ask Lestrade to stay", John thought, "She would probably enjoy it even more if _all_ her orifices were kept busy."


End file.
